“Bollocks,” growled Diarmid, but he sat down again, the knife still in his hands. Their words faded out of my consciousness and the evil images returned. I tried again to block them out, but they would not go. I wanted to scream, to shout out, to let go the anger and hurt in my head; but somehow still I clenched my teeth and swallowed the sounds that threatened to break forth, and my tears flowed silently. My brothers meant well. But I almost wished it were dawn, and they were gone again. The voices went on arguing, and after a while Padriac brought me more to drink and I took it, and he went away again. The images passed and passed in my mind. The brand of hot iron on human flesh. Eilis racked with convulsions, her pretty face distorted with retching. The dog with her trusting eyes and the knife wound deep across her face. The wide smile of the simpleton as he gazed up into the trees. Don’t hurt faery girl! Your turn next, farm boy. Under the thick cloak, I was shivering.

I’m here, Sorcha.

I would not believe it at first; it had been so long since he had touched my mind in this way.

I’m here. Try to let go, dear one. I know how it hurts. Lean on me; let me take your burden for a while.

I could scarcely see him; he was on the far side of the fire, behind the others and half turned away, with his head still in his hands. It seemed as if he had scarcely moved at all.

How can you? How can you know?

I know. Let me help you.

I felt the strength of his mind flow into mine, and somehow he managed to close off the terrible, the dark and secret things that he had dreaded sharing with me, and fill my head with pictures of all that was good and brave. Myself, a small child dancing joyfully along a forest path, sheltered by the arching branches, lit by dappled sun. This was an old image, stored deep in his consciousness and influencing all that he did. Then, the two of us, lying on the rocks by the spring pools, facedown, chins on hands, still as small basking lizards, watching the tiny jewellike frogs as they hopped and dived and sprang among the fronds of watercress. Finbar, patiently extracting the barbs of starwort from my hands as Conor told the story of Deirdre, Lady of the Forest. The seven of us in our circle around the little birch tree, our hands linked.

He gave me no time to think, but flooded my mind, blotting out, for now at least, my wretchedness and fear. It was as if his mind had slipped itself around mine to shelter it from harm. So there was more: he and I again, sitting on the roof slates at home, looking out far, far over forest and lake. A little image of Father Brien, tip of tongue between his lips, as with deft brush strokes he worked on an intricate page of manuscript. Conor in his white robe, reading notches on the trunk of a great rowan. Diarmid and Liam wrestling in the shallows, strength against strength, until one gave way and the contest ended in splashing and hilarity. Padriac splinting an owl’s wing, clever hands moving without haste, not to frighten. Cormack and Linn running along the shore, and the west wind whipping up the water to cover their footsteps in the sand.